


Gasoline

by Ga_reki



Category: Durarara!!, 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Genre: Chuuya and Shizuo, Crossover, Dazai and Izaya, Eventual Smut, Gen, Kind of angsty, M/M, No Dead Apple spoilers, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Dark Era, mentions of abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ga_reki/pseuds/Ga_reki
Summary: Set before the Dark Era, Dazai and Chuuya travel to Ikebukuro on a reconnaissance mission, a city teeming with the delusive and the disturbed. As Chuuya heads deep into the city's heart, Dazai makes his way to Shinjuku, where a man awaits him, prepared to tangle him inside of his web.





	1. Demolition Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> As of the publish date, I have yet to see Dead Apple. That means that this fic will be exempt from all spoilers, with the exception of some vague references to the Fifteen light novel. Nothing is stated explicitly, and I have expanded on a few things for creativity purposes. I will note them as they arise so nobody gets confused.
> 
> The title is taken from the song of the same name by Halsey.
> 
> Enjoy!

The heat on the train was oppressing. They were packed together like fish at the supermarket, or like a lobster tank. Chuuya tried to imagine that: bodies stacked on top of each other, mindlessly crawling their way from one corner to another. The thought made him nauseous. A chill rippled down his back, and he clenched his fist around the handle.

“Feeling ill, Chuuya?”

Chuuya grated his teeth. Peering out of the corner of his eye, he could make out Dazai’s silhouette, not quite next to him, but not quite behind him, either.

“Of course I am,” he snapped. “It’s because you’re standing next to me. I probably have a terminal illness.”

“If only you were so lucky.”

“You—!”

Dazai snapped his head toward him. His eyes forewarned him from picking a fight, but his smirk stretched, daring him to try. Chuuya clicked his tongue and swallowed his irritation. He turned his cheek to Dazai and gazed out the window.

They’d been riding for almost an hour, a straight shot north from Yokohama to Ikebukuro. They were investigating the rumor of an ability user. The user in question was rumored to be extremely combative—hence Chuuya, the best martial artist in the Port Mafia—but with the possibility that they could benefit them as a member, there was a chance that they could recruit him without things getting ugly—hence Dazai, the youngest executive in Port Mafia history, speaking on Mori’s behalf and armed with a tongue of gold.

There were three possible outcomes to this mission. If the rumor proved to be false or exaggerated—meaning the user did not pose as much of a threat as they'd been lead to believe—then they could walk away. They gained nothing in their death. If the user _did_ exist, it depended on whether they agreed to join or not—which also depended on whether the user lived or died.

They could never let such a risk slip by. If it existed, it had to be eliminated.

The train lurched as it slowed, which sent Chuuya staggering. An arm lashed out and caught him around the middle before he could hit the floor.

"Easy, there." Dazai pulled him upright but left his arm around his waist. "You should've asked to sit down if you couldn't handle being a standing passenger."

“Shut up!”

Dazai chuckled. Then, with no one’s eyes to see, his hand slithered down. He folded it around Chuuya’s ass and squeezed, making him jerk.

"Oi!" Chuuya smacked his arm away. A couple of curious heads whirled around to look. Chuuya growled in exasperation and lowered his voice to a hiss. "Can't you keep it in your pants, you shithead? Is it an antenna? For fuck's sake."

Dazai wore the expression of a carnivore playing with its prey. “Would you rather be groped by a pervert?”

“You _are_ the pervert. Bastard.” He bit his lip, aware that his face was a furious shade of red and hating every minute of it. “I hope you die.”

“Plan on it.”

The train came to a stop. Almost before it was in the station, Dazai was dislodging himself from his spot and making his way toward the doors. The crowd seemed to part for him as if it were making way for a king. The thought would have pissed Chuuya off if he weren't suddenly so confused.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded. “This isn’t our stop.”

“You’ve got it half right,” Dazai called back. “It’s not _your_ stop, but it is _mine_.”

"What are you talking about? You shit!" Chuuya dashed after him, pushing his way through the hoard. He stumbled once but managed to catch Dazai's coat as he hit the terminal. "We're supposed to be going to Ikebukuro. _Together_.”

“And what would be the point of that?”

The other passengers flooded past them as if they weren't even there. Chuuya stared into Dazai's eyes. He tried to decipher what he was thinking, but all he could see was that murky, abyssal brown—a color that light never seemed to reach.

The corner of Dazai’s mouth pulled up. He turned around and stepped into the doorway, one foot in the train, one on the platform. He pressed his face close enough to Chuuya’s that he could smell the dried blood emanating from beneath his bandages.

“There is an information broker in Shinjuku,” he told him, his voice soft, but not entirely kind. “He might have something that could help us with this case.”

“An information broker, huh?” Chuuya tried not to swallow. “What does that have to do splitting up? I should come with you.”

“Like I said, there’s no _point_. We’ll cover more ground this way. I’ll go to Shinjuku to talk to the information broker, and you’ll go to Ikebukuro and investigate the source of the rumor.”

“And why should I do anything you say?”

“Because you know I’m right.”

The urge to punch him was actually, physically _painful_. Chuuya scrunched his eyes shut; looking at him only infuriated him more.

"Chuuya. You understand why I'm the one going, don't you?" He felt something brush his face, cup his cheek. Chuuya refused to look at him. "This is a sensitive meeting. The guy has a bad reputation and operates by his own rules. If it goes badly, it determines whether we'll be able to use him in the future. We don't want him as an enemy."

“And?”

Dazai’s tone was patronizing. “You have a tendency to punch first and ask questions later.”

“Is that an invitation?” he snapped, flashing his eyes open. Dazai took the opportunity and swooped in, planting a kiss on Chuuya’s lips. Chuuya was already off-balance, and he was so surprised that if Dazai hadn’t of been holding him, he would’ve fallen to the floor.

Dazai let out a breath, whether of exasperation or endearment, Chuuya couldn’t tell. “Trust me, would you? Have my tactics ever been wrong before?”

Chuuya wanted to strangle him and snog him all at once.

“Oi!” the conductor called, his eyes locking on Dazai and shooting daggers. “You! Stop dawdling! Are you in or are you out? Do you want to get cut in half?”

At that, Dazai’s eyes lit up like a child at a theme park. Chuuya’s patience finally cracked. He shoved Dazai as hard as he could onto the platform.

“Get out of here, already!” he commanded. “And if you die, I’ll kick your ass.”

Dazai sniggered. “Have fun in Ikebukuro, Chuuya,” he called back. “Try not to get lost.”

“As if.”

Dazai winked, then turned on his heel and faded into the crowd.

Chuuya headed further up the train, pausing behind the conductor’s seat. He coughed to get his attention. “Sorry about that,” he said.

“It’s fine.” He tilted his head toward him, one eyebrow raised. “Hey, wasn’t that the same guy who tried to jump in front of the train when I pulled into Yokohama?”

Chuuya sighed. “Yeah.”

“What’s his problem?”

“I’ve been asking myself that for years.”

* * *

It was another eight minutes to Ikebukuro. Chuuya stood in silence for the rest of the ride, one hand on the handle, the other pulling on the hairs at the back of his neck. It had gotten long recently, and he was contemplating whether he should let it grow out or not. He was worried it might make him look more feminine, which with his height— _or,_ he thought bitterly, _my lack thereof_ —and androgynous features was a problem already.

_Then again, what does it matter how I look? If someone doesn’t like it, I’ll kick their ass._

He glanced up. Somebody had scribbled their phone number across the ceiling. The characters above it said something about a “delivery god.” Chuuya narrowed his eyes.

_Delivery? Like what, pizza delivery?_

Before he could think too much about it, the train began to lose speed. The squealing of the brakes signaled their arrival. Chuuya sighed in relief. _Finally_ , he thought. As soon as the train stopped, he lowered his arm and rolled his shoulder. _I can’t wait to get this job done and go home._

He shuffled his way to the doors and stepped out into the humid afternoon. The sun had reached the pinnacle of its rotation hours ago and was sinking in the sky. He still had some time before rush hour, so if he wanted to get any work done, he had to do it now.

_I just hope this doesn’t turn into too much trouble._

* * *

Dazai had a lot of good ideas, but this was definitely not one of them.

He'd reached the apartment building in little to no time and was currently lounging in the lift, watching the numbers increase as he ascended. His mind was wandering. He wasn't sure what kind of facial expression he was making, but he was glad that the car was empty so no one else could see it.

_I had to do it_ , he consoled himself.

Truth be told, it _would_ have been better for Chuuya to come with him, especially considering the mentality of both parties involved. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Chuuya, or deemed him incapable—he was stronger than him, at least in the physical sense. If he had been meeting anyone else, he would have brought him along in a heartbeat.

The problem was Chuuya’s biggest flaw: his gullibility. Dazai had poked at it himself, feeding him white lies, unraveling his chain only to yank it back again. It often sent Chuuya into a burning rage—his temper was short and easily ignited, like a Molotov cocktail—but it was harmless entertainment. He knew where the line was drawn, and he never dared to cross it. That didn’t mean that someone else wouldn’t—someone like a certain information broker. He was cunning, manipulative, and enjoyed setting fires to see how fast things would burn. If Dazai were to bring Chuuya to someone like that, it would be like feeding a mouse to a snake. He could not put him in that kind of situation.

It wasn’t like he was jolly about meeting him by himself, though.

The elevator groaned as it stopped. The doors flew open. Dazai walked down the hallway and gave every apartment number a cursory glance before moving on. At last, he found the one he was looking for and stopped to stare at it, a wave of dread creeping up on him.

_This should be fun._ He knocked on the door.

A moment later, it opened, and Dazai found himself staring into the face of a woman. She had a cold, metallic beauty about her, like the edge of a finely polished blade. Her hair and her eyes were dark, her skin pale. They were stark against the bright green of her turtleneck and red mini-skirt. Dazai blinked at her, his mind in overdrive, trying to process the details he’d received with the woman standing before him.

Then the woman turned her head back into the room. “Izaya,” she called. “Your five o’clock is here.”

“Really? He’s early,” replied a voice. It had a cheerful cadence, almost pleasant. “Let him in.”

The woman stepped aside, letting the door swing back in Dazai’s face. Dazai caught it in the nick of time, clicking his tongue silently in annoyance.

“Hm...Dazai-kun, was it?” the voice continued. “Your punctuality is impressive.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Dazai removed his shoes and stepped into the apartment, taking a moment to soak it all in.

It was massive. The floor plan was wide and spacious, and the furniture was modern and expensive. There was a sectional sofa and a widescreen television tucked underneath a staircase leading up to living quarters above. Bookshelves lined the walls while standing directly opposite him was a pane of floor-to-ceiling windows. Positioned in front of it was a sweeping executive desk made of stainless steel.

And sitting behind it, leaning back casually in his chair, was a man.

The first thing he noticed about him was that he was handsome. His looks were peculiar, hard to discern, all parts of him equally soft and hard. He was like a stone broken in half: one part round and smooth, the other jagged and coarse. His eyes were alight and attentive as they followed him into the room.

“Interesting,” was all he said. “Very interesting.”

Dazai stopped in front of him, leaving a respectable distance between them. “I take it you’re Orihara Izaya?”

“And if I am?” He signaled to the woman, whose jaw clenched with irritation. She turned on her heel and headed up the stairs, disappearing into the apartment.

Izaya noticed Dazai’s observation. “Don’t mind her,” he told him. “She’s a horrible person, but she does have her uses.” He waved his hand. “Go ahead, sit down.”

Dazai made himself comfortable on the sofa. Izaya typed something on his computer. His fingers moved effortlessly, without a shred of hesitation, as if the keyboard were an extension of his body. Dazai absorbed his every move, trying to decipher him. On the surface, he seemed hospitable—he had to be, as part of his job—but Dazai couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was not as it seemed. It was like staring into the barrel of a gun, but not knowing whether it was empty. After all, it wasn’t the gun itself that would kill you—it was the bullets.

_No_ , Dazai thought, his apprehension growing stronger. _He’s loaded. The real question is whether he will shoot._

The woman—who he now took to be Izaya’s secretary—came back down the stairs, carrying a tea tray. She offered a cup to Dazai before depositing another onto Izaya’s desk. She left the tray with the cream and sugar on the coffee table, then swept out of the room as silently as she came. Dazai lifted the cup to his nose; it was a dark and potent black tea, and judging by the aroma, it was undoubtedly chocolate.

“Do you like tea, Dazai-kun?” Izaya asked. “Be careful—she might have poisoned it.”

Dazai raised his eyes to meet his. He took a long, slow slip. Izaya’s mouth curled in an unamused smile.

“All right, then.” He spread his arms, snapping back in his seat. “Let’s be done with the pleasantries. You mentioned needing information regarding a certain individual, but you wouldn’t disclose who.”

“You met with me without knowing my intentions?”

“And turn down a meeting with the Port Mafia?” Izaya scoffed. “An executive, no less? I was intrigued. What is so important that it brings you all the way up here from Yokohama?”

Dazai set down his tea, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We have reports on a possible ability user in Ikebukuro.”

Izaya frowned. “Is that all?”

“Depending on the validity of these reports, the user could pose either a great benefit or a hazard. They have caused thousands of dollars of collateral damage. They single-handedly defeated an entire swarm of attackers with their bare hands.” Dazai drummed his fingers on his leg. “A person like that could decimate the entire Port Mafia in one night. Easily.”

As Dazai watched, Izaya’s face began to morph. Its impish glee dwindled and hardened, with a frown scratched across his face like a scar. In that instant, Dazai knew he’d hit it right on target.

“And who,” Izaya asked, his voice dead, “would this person’s name be?”

Dazai studied him carefully.

“Heiwajima Shizuo.”


	2. Kids With Guns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be stated here that this story is meant to take place shortly after the Yellow Scarves Arc—during the "holiday" as mentioned in volume 4 of the light novels.

Chuuya considered himself adept at many things, but maintaining a conversation without resorting to violence was not one of them. Patience may have been a virtue, but it was not one that he possessed.

 _I wish I had a cigarette_ , he grumbled, kicking his foot across the sidewalk. He'd meant to get some before he left town, but time had gotten in the way, and in the end, it'd slipped his mind. Now, irritation and stress were piling up like a landfill, and he was starting to get that itch. He stuffed his hands into his front pockets to keep them still.

He'd asked around, interviewed people, but so far had come up flat. The responses he got were either clipped or vague; the moment he mentioned the person involved, nobody wanted to talk at all. He was starting to get the suspicion that there was nothing at the bottom of this hole.

 _I want to go home_ , he thought, not for the first time. The evening was ripe and gold, and the city was settling in for the night. Shop owners were closing up, and others were preparing for the graveyard shift ahead. The number of people on the streets had swelled not that long ago, but they had slowly begun to disappear.

He was so absorbed in his feet that he almost didn’t notice the people in front of him until they collided. His shoulder smashed into something hard. He heard their cries of alarm followed by a tremendous clatter.

“ _Shit_ ,” Chuuya hissed, gripping his shoulder. He whirled on his heel. “I’m sor—”

“You idiot! Look what you did!”

The sidewalk was strewn with books. Two figures, a boy and a girl, had hunched down, scooping them into their arms as if they were beggars stealing from the market. Chuuya blinked at them, unsure how to react.

“I said I was sorry.” Chuuya dropped to his knees, picking a book off the ground. He held it out to them. “It was an accide—”

The boy snatched the book out of his hands. “You’re _sorry_? Do you even know what this is?” He flashed the cover in Chuuya’s face. It was bright and idiosyncratic, covered with whimsical designs. A full-scale portrait of a boy with white hair and red eyes beamed back at him. “Do you have no appreciation for Mikanagi-sensei’s work _at all_?”

Chuuya peered at the girl out of the corner of his eye. She was glaring at him from underneath the visor of her newsboy cap. His hand twitched towards the knife sheathed at his side. “You two picking a fight?”

“Depends,” she answered, smiling delightedly. “Want me to staple the inside of your mouth?”

 _Staple my…?_ Chuuya tried not to let his confusion show. _What kind of a threat is that?_

“Are you two done?”

At the sound of the new voice, they quieted down. A young man approached them, his hands stuffed in his jacket. It was hard to see much of his face with his beanie pulled over his eyes, but he was visibly irritated.

“Stop that, already.” He looked at Chuuya. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Chuuya narrowed his eyes. It wasn’t that he found the man intimidating, but the atmosphere surrounding him was considerably different. Chuuya recognized a leader when he saw one.

Together, they collected the books. Chuuya stood, holding out his share to the girl as a peace offering. “I really am sorry,” he told her. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

She huffed under her breath, but her previous malice seemed to have abated. “Obviously!” she exclaimed. “We paid a lot of money for these!”

“I’ve been waiting for this release to come out since October.” The boy crouched over his backpack, cradling a book in his hands. This one was darker, with a group of pubescent kids huddled together, brandishing weapons. It had a futuristic, sci-fi vibe to it. “Rentarō is one of the best protagonists to ever grace the pages of fiction.”

“You’re just saying that because every single one of the cursed children is infatuated with him,” the girl retorted. “It’s a harem.”

“How is it any better than a reverse harem, then, hm?”

“Simple!” She clapped a hand over her chest. “They have more charm. Their art style is better. Their storylines have a light-hearted feel to them, they make people smile—”

“What, like _Uta-Puri_?”

“ _Don’t you dare knock_ Uta-Puri.”

Chuuya felt like he was watching a tennis match. He felt something tug on his arm, and when he looked, it was the man with the beanie.

“Don’t even try to follow,” he advised, taking the books from his arms. “They have their own language.”

“Ah...okay.”

He was staring at Chuuya curiously. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“You can tell?”

“I’ve seen quite a few characters in Ikebukuro, but never one like you.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m Kadota.” He jabbed a thumb at the girl and boy. “Those two hopeless fools are Karisawa and Yumasaki.”

“Nakahara,” Chuuya returned. “Nakahara Chuuya.”

“Well then, Nakahara Chuuya.” Kadota set his shoulders back. “What brings you here?”

“Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Private business,” Chuuya replied, then tilted his head. “Maybe you can help.”

“Oh, really?”

“I’m looking for someone. Have you seen any strange people walking around Ikebukuro?”

As if on cue, the three looked at each other. Then they exploded with laughter.

Chuuya’s frown grew deeper. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Kadota wheezed, gathering his breath. His cheeks were red. “It’s just...you’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Okay.” Chuuya crossed his arms. “Heiwajima Shizuo. Does that name ring a bell?”

A sudden, eerie silence. Their laughter completely dissipated, dropping like a stone into water. Chuuya could hear the train passing in the distance.

Kadota’s smile had become a grimace. “Listen, Nakahara—”

“Just Chuuya.”

“Chuuya,” he corrected. “Let me do you a favor. Don’t go looking for him.”

“Why not?”

“I really don’t want your death on my conscious.”

 _Bingo_. Chuuya’s stomach churned with excitement. “So you _do_ know him.”

The three of them shared a look. Kadota closed his eyes and let out a breath. “You could say that I know him, yeah.”

“Then help a guy out here, would you? Where can I find him?”

Kadota winced as if he felt a headache coming on. Nobody moved for a moment. Then he fixed Chuuya with a steely gaze. "Are you sure about this?"

“Positive.”

Kadota nodded in resignation. He looked at Yumasaki. “You got a piece of paper in that bag of yours?”

“Of course!” Yumasaki delved deep into his backpack and produced what looked like a receipt. Karisawa slipped a pen out of her bag and offered it to him. Kadota took them both and scribbled something down, then held it out for Chuuya to take.

“This is the number of an acquaintance of mine,” he explained when Chuuya hesitated. “He knows him well—you could say they’re friends, I guess.”

“Why not give me Shizuo’s number instead?” Chuuya asked, taking it from him.

“I don’t have it,” he admitted. “Not that I would want to, anyway.”

Chuuya stared at the number. “What should I say?”

“Just ask to meet. He should be finishing up his rounds by now, so it’s not too late. Use my name, if you have to. Oh, and don’t be surprised if he doesn’t answer you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he doesn’t talk, so…”

Chuuya just blinked at him, prepared to ask more questions—but then decided against it. He stuffed the piece of paper in his pocket.

“Thank you,” he told him. “I won’t forget this.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Chuuya turned to leave. He’d made it a couple of paces before Kadota’s voice came up from behind him.

“Hey, Chuuya. Do me a favor?”

Chuuya inclined his head back, showing he was listening.

“Shizuo hasn’t killed anybody yet,” he told him. “Don’t be his first.”

“Yeah,” Karisawa chimed in, cupping her hands around her mouth. “It’s not like this is the Afterlife Battlefront! You die, you’re really dead!”

Curiosity tickled the corner of his mind. _Hasn’t killed anyone yet, huh?_ He threw them a smile. “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on dying today.”

* * *

In a Shinjuku apartment, there was only silence. The seconds ticked away like the timer on a bomb. Izaya’s stare seemed to envelop the room, surrounding Dazai on all sides. It cornered him, judged him. It was as if he had hardened into a statue; there was no sign that he was living. Not even the blink of an eyelash or the rise and fall of breath. There was no light reflected in his eyes.

Then, he scoffed. It became a laughing fit.

“Of course,” he breathed, his voice almost woeful. “It always resorts to him.”

He stood from his chair, turning toward the window. Dazai refused to move. His eyes locked on his back.

“I hate to tell you this, Dazai-kun, but you’ve wasted your time.”

“Have I?” Dazai asked slowly.

“I have no interest in talking about that monster.” He turned his face toward Dazai so he was in profile. Despite the words coming out of it, his mouth retained a smile, hiding at the edges, always ready to use. “I don’t know what he’s doing, nor do I care. So if you expect me to disclose anything, you are sadly disappointed.”

Their eyes met. Now that Dazai looked at them, with the sun hitting his irises, they had an unusual hint of red. The effect was eerie—almost disturbing.

Dazai picked up his tea, leaning back in his chair. “Is that so?” He took a sip. “That’s fine, then.”

Izaya’s eyebrows twitched, the corners of his mouth wavered—but only for a second. “It’s ‘fine’?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Dazai nodded. “I didn’t have much interest in this Shizuo person, anyway.” He spun his finger around the rim of his cup, feigning interest in his reflection. “The person that I’m more interested in is you.”

Izaya didn’t respond. Dazai felt his glare like a pair of crosshairs. Eventually, he heard the squeak of the chair as Izaya resumed his seat. He didn’t take his eyes away from his cup.

“Me, huh?” Izaya chuckled. “I’m flattered, but I’m afraid that I’m not attracted to men.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea, Orihara-san.” Dazai flicked his gaze upward at last. “You’re nowhere near my type. At all.”

Izaya’s smile spread. Dazai set down his tea.

“What I meant,” Dazai said, trying again, “was I’m interested in your work.”

“My work? Don’t lie to me. The mafia must have access to a hundred of my kind. What makes me so special?”

“Well, your personality leaves much to be desired, but there’s no doubt that you are good at what you do,” Dazai admitted begrudgingly. “The best, even.”

“I told you, flattery will get you nowhere.” His words were full of disgrace, but his expression was clearly pleased. He folded his hands, leaning his elbows on his desk. “Who told you about me?”

“No one. I found you myself.”

“‘Found’ me…” An invisible question mark dangled at the end of his sentence.

“That’s right. Perhaps you think you covered your tracks completely, but you’re wrong.” He flashed him a covert smile. “You can pretend all you want, but you’re the one that leaked the rumor to us in the first place. Isn’t that right?”

The clock ticked. The second hand pounded the rhythm of Dazai’s heartbeat. He couldn’t read the expression on Izaya’s face; it was as if he’d erased it, letting only an outline remain. He watched Dazai with his eerily red eyes, assessing him, dissecting him. Dazai waited out the seconds in agonizing silence.

“You’re not going to ask why?” Izaya asked at length.

It was as good of a confession as Dazai was going to get. He let out a silent breath.

“I don’t need to. You've written your past across Ikebukuro in blood.” He gestured toward him with his hand. “You two are rivals. No, enemies. _Sworn_ enemies. You play a game of cat and mouse, and the city gets caught in the crossfire. It doesn’t take a genius to infer that you tried to use the Port Mafia as cannon fodder, all to appeal to your personal agenda: to kill Heiwajima.”

Izaya rested his chin on his hands. “And?”

“And what?”

“What about it?” Izaya asked. His features had slumped, and he appeared almost bored now. “So you found out. What more can you do? All I did was give you the information; it was up to you as an organization on how to handle it. What did you think you would gain by coming here?”

“I know how you work, Orihara Izaya. I know how you use people. You manipulate the vulnerable and the accursed into becoming your underlings, and you toy with their lives to see how they’ll react—like _rats_.” Slowly, Dazai stood. “It’s enough to make a person sick.” He reached behind his back, feeding the hilt of the gun hidden at his waist into the palm of his hand. He pulled back the safety and steadied it at Izaya’s head.

Izaya showed no recognition that the gun was there, nor any surprise that it was aimed at him. He stared into the barrel, his nose curled with distaste. “What are you, some kind of avenger?” he demanded. “You have no right to act all high and mighty.”

“Maybe so,” he conceded. “But the mafia does not appreciate being used. We are not puppets for you to play with.”

Izaya’s frown remained stubborn.

"Let me ask you this before I blow your brains out: What bone do you have to pick?"

Izaya blinked at him, eyes wide. Then he began to laugh. It flooded the room, building and building until it crawled into Dazai’s ears and dug into his brain. His finger twitched on the trigger, desperate to pull it.

Izaya settled down. His smile had slithered up behind his ears, and he looked at Dazai with demented glee. “ _The whole skeleton_ ,” he proclaimed.

Dazai scoffed, unamused. “Is that so?” His finger began to tighten.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Izaya interjected. “ _Tsushima-kun_.”

Dazai's finger stopped dead—then his heart did, too. A cold feeling washed over his stomach.

“Tsushima Shuuji,” Izaya continued, cocking his head. “That is your real name...is it not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tsushima Shuuji was Dazai Osamu's birth name—but I'm sure most of you knew that already. ;)


	3. Dead

“ _Hello. My name is Celty. It’s a pleasure to meet you._ ”

Chuuya stared at the words on the screen. He looked up at the person holding the PDA, then back down again.

He wasn't sure who he'd been expecting, but it was definitely not this. Despite Kadota referring to them as "he," the person standing before him was unquestionably female. It only took one glimpse to notice. Her riding suit wrapped around a powerful, curvaceous body, swathing her in black from her feet all the way up to her helmet. The helmet in question was a screaming shade of yellow with a bizarre, cat-like shape, at odds with the rest of her appearance. Chuuya couldn't see her face through her visor, so it was hard to tell what she was thinking.

 _This woman looks like she could kick my ass_.

He realized they’d been standing in silence and straightened. “Um,” he began, then bowed his head, a little awkwardly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”

She began to type, and Chuuya watched, fascinated. _Does she not speak because she’s trying to hide her gender?_

She turned the screen toward him. “ _You mentioned you had something you wanted to ask me?_ ”

“...Yes, I do.”

When he’d called, he at first hadn’t realized anyone had picked up. Feeling stupid, he’d asked to meet, and on a whim had mentioned that Kadota had given him this number. He told himself that he’d wait no more than fifteen minutes, but when he’d reached Wonder Parlour Cafe, she was already there, leaning against the side of her pitch-black motorcycle.

“I’m interested in someone named Heiwajima Shizuo. I was told that you’re friends?”

“ _We are. What about him?_ ”

Chuuya opened his mouth, then closed it. He opened it again, changing course. “First of all, is it true what I’ve heard?”

“ _If you’re talking about his strength, then yes. It’s true._ ”

A thrill of excitement shivered down Chuuya’s spine. “So he can really throw police cars with his bare hands?”

“ _Yes_.”

 _Holy shit_. Chuuya tired to keep the smile that was threatening to spread across his face contained. It was a struggle. “I see.”

“ _Are you looking to find him?_ ”

“Yes. Do you know where he’d be?”

She hesitated, then started typing rapidly. For a second, Chuuya thought he could discern something omitting from her hand—a shadow, possibly. It moved in tandem with her fingers. Then he blinked, and it was gone.

“ _Chuuya-san, was it?_ ”

“Yes.”

“ _You’re not a reporter, are you?_ ”

Her posture was rigid; it was obvious what the correct answer was. “No.”

She slumped, expelling an inaudible sigh of relief. “ _Good_ ,” she said, then turned the screen away to finish her statement. “ _I don’t know where he is, exactly. He’s constantly on the move. It’s getting late, though, so I’d imagine he’s finishing up for the night. You could always try Russia Sushi._ ”

“Russia Sushi?”

“ _He frequents there. I’ve been there quite a few times, myself_.” She pointed behind him. “ _It’s not far from Higashi-Ikebukuro Park. Just follow the underpass and watch for Simon_.”

“Who’s Simon?”

“ _One of the owners. Trust me, he’s hard to miss._ ”

“Thank you,” he said earnestly.

“ _Don’t worry about it_.” She stopped, her fingers hovering over the keys. Chuuya watched her curiously. She resumed, slower this time. “ _Can I ask why you’re looking for him?_ ”

Chuuya gazed into her helmet. He didn’t want to lie to this woman, but it wasn’t like he could disclose the truth, either. He bit his lip, mulling over the words he wanted to say.

“It’s...complicated. If all goes well, we’ll just talk. My partner and I heard stories about him from afar, and we came here to investigate.”

“ _Your ‘partner’?_ ”

“Business partner,” he corrected, but the words tasted foul. Before he could stop himself, he was opening his mouth again. “Well, maybe we are more than that...I don’t even know anymore.”

Celty tilted her head, compelling him to elaborate. Chuuya winced.

“It’s like…” He stepped away from the street, settling his weight on the side of the motorcycle beside her. “He pisses me off to no end, you know? He’s constantly screwing with me, and his personality sucks, but...I still want to be with him. I want to be by his side. It’s like...I need to keep him safe.”

“ _Safe from what?_ ”

“Himself.”

 _Why am I telling her this?_ It wasn’t a topic he liked to discuss. Still, he felt at ease around her, like he could open up and she would tuck his words away, out of sight, out of mind. Besides, it was nice to talk without being interrupted or having his words turned against him.

Celty flashed him her PDA. “ _I understand_ ,” the message read.

He gave her another smile. “Thank you.”

They were quiet for a moment, contemplating. They must have struck passerby as a bizarre pair, but any curious eyes did not linger for very long. Chuuya stretched out his legs and gazed up at the sky.

“Hey, Celty-san,” he said. “How come you don’t talk?”

She stared at him, and Chuuya began to feel like he’d missed something important. “ _You mean you haven’t heard of me?_ ”

“Heard of wha—”

There was a thundering _boom_. It seemed to shake the entire city. Chuuya’s head snapped toward the noise, his combative instincts skyrocketing into overdrive. A gaggle of pedestrians stopped in their tracks, their murmurs and cries of concern rising above the echo of the blast. Then there was a hushed, uneasy quiet.

“What the hell was that?” Chuuya exclaimed.

Celty showed him her screen. “ _Your target_.”

* * *

There is a moment in a person’s life when their emotions become too much for them to bear, and so they stop feeling anything. It doesn’t matter whether it’s temporary or long-term. They break apart, their vision tunnels, and their mind becomes an empty plain, stretching for miles in every direction but filled with nothing, nothing, nothing. For Dazai, this was that moment.

He was aware that his hand was shaking because he could see it, but there was no sensation to suggest that it was really happening. His eyes drilled into Izaya, who wore the expression of a man who knew he’d played a winning hand.

“How…” Dazai managed to sputter out. “How do you...”

“How do I know?” Izaya splayed his hands. “I’m an information broker. It’s my job.”

“But that’s…” _Classified information_. The only person who knew Dazai’s identity was Mori. Not even Chuuya was aware that his name—the one that had carved fear into the hearts of so many enemies—was not his own.

Izaya smiled. It was stale, and it hardly reached his eyes. "Do you think so little of me? Did you really think that I wouldn't research my client before I met with them? Then perhaps I should better convince you." Izaya raised a finger, as if he were teaching a lesson. "You were born into a family of wealthy landowners in Kanagi. You were the youngest of eight."

“Stop,” Dazai pleaded, but Izaya pressed on.

“After the economic bubble burst and the Tokyo Stock Exchange crashed, real estate prices were at their peak—but without any people to sell their land to, your family was in turmoil. Fortunately for them, they found an optimal solution, didn’t they? Can you guess what it was? Go on. I’m sure you know the answer to this one.”

Dazai couldn’t answer him. He couldn’t even speak.

"No?" Izaya asked, sounding disappointed. "Then let me tell you. Your parents started selling. Their estate, their shares, their possessions…" He put a finger to his lips. "And their children, right?"

The word sank into Dazai's stomach like the blade of a sword. His fingers strangled his gun.

"You know how those guys work. The younger, the better. And so who did they offer?" He threw his arms up in a cheer. "You! Their youngest and most darling child!"

“ _Shut up_.”

“It’s a wonder you managed to escape. Tell me, how did you do it? Did you strangle your abuser’s neck with those dainty little hands of yours? Did you stab him in the chest before slicing open your own wrists? Tell me, Dazai-kun, _I beg you_ , how many times have you tried to die? How many times have you tried to rid yourself of those memories that haunt you?”

“I told you to _shut up_!”

Dazai’s arm snapped out, the gun latched onto Izaya’s smirking face. The tremors in his hand had subsided.

“Ooh,” Izaya remarked. “I like that look in your eyes.”

“Is this some kind of game to you?” Dazai demanded.

“Of course! I love humans. They’re my favorite toys.” He chuckled to himself. “I want to play and play with them until they’re all worn out.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“And yet I’m not the one holding the gun, am I?”

Dazai hissed in a breath.

“Let me ask you something, Dazai-kun. Why are you still in the Port Mafia? Surely you could have left by now. It’s not impossible. So what exactly is tying you here?”

“Like it’s any of your business.”

“Ah, I bet I know what it is!” Izaya snapped his fingers. “It’s that partner of yours. What’s his name…? Ah, Chuuya. Kind of a pretty boy, isn’t he? And so _powerful_ , too. Imagine what you could do with an ability like tha—”

Izaya had barely gotten the word out before the gun lodged into the side of his head.

Dazai couldn't remember crossing the distance, only that it no longer existed. There was a gap in his memory. On one side, he'd been across the room, and on the other, he was pressed against Izaya's body. His fist clenched around his shirt, his gun gouging a hole in his skin.

“Oh, what’s this?” Izaya greeted it as if it were an old friend. “Did I hit a sore spot?”

 _Just do it_ , a voice whispered in Dazai’s brain. It grew in intensity, becoming loud, maddening. _Kill him. Kill him_. _Kill him_.

“I’m sorry to say, Dazai-kun, but you can’t kill me.” Dazai felt something dig into his side. There was a sharp, stinging pain, and he didn’t have to look to know that it was from a knife.

“Give me one good reason,” he demanded. He barely registered the words himself. He was on autopilot, his subconscious sitting in the back of his head, watching. Screaming.

“Because if I die, every piece of information that I’ve collected from every organization I’ve ever affiliated with will become known. Including yours.” Izaya’s eyes caught fire. “You wouldn’t want something to happen to poor, precious Chuuya, would you?”

“He can take care of himself.”

“I wonder,” Izaya mused. “With an ability like that, he has a lot of people after him, doesn’t he? The mafia offers him protection in exchange for work. But what happens when it crumbles, hm? I bet they wouldn’t hesitate to use Corruption.”

“He is not a _weapon_ for people to _use_.”

“He’s a bomb,” Izaya objected, his smile vanishing in a blink. “Don’t deny it. The only one keeping his fuse unlit is you.”

Dazai's hand was back to shaking. His vision was thinning. Izaya's form was disappearing before his eyes.

“I’ll say it again, Dazai-kun. You are not going to kill me. You’re going to walk out of here with your tail between your legs, like the dog you are.”

_Just do it shoot him do it right in the head so easy needs to die do it kill him do it kill him do it do it doitdoit—_

The sound of a gunshot rang out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dazai's past is a figment of my imagination, and not a part of any canon storyline. It's meant to lead up to him meeting Mori in the Fifteen light novel. (I haven't read it, since I, sadly, was not at the premiere.) Certain things regarding his family and where he was born are based on Dazai Osamu's real life.


	4. Gravity

Chuuya ran. He ran like the hounds of Hell were biting at his heels.

He’d managed to toss one last “thank you” Celty’s way before he’d taken off, flying through the streets and cutting across the park. A flock of startled pigeons erupted before him as he cleared the grass and hit the pavement, his stride never checking even once.

 _I have to hurry_ , he thought. _If I don’t, it’ll be too late!_

He charged through the underpass. His legs were moving faster than his mind could process, and he didn’t feel any pain, no screaming for him to stop. He couldn't even feel his heartbeat. Still, he pressed on, propelling himself further, closing in.

Then he came to a staggering halt.

People bordered the street, openly gawking. Some of them whispered in stricken, high-pitched voices. Their attention was directed at the anterior of a building across the street. In front of it was a man, surrounded by bodies. Chuuya couldn’t tell if they were alive or not—they lay on the ground, immobile, their eyes gaping wide. Blood dribbled down their faces. The man towering over them was breathing heavily, but not of exhaustion. It was the slow, rugged breath of an enraged bull. Crumpled in his hand was something that looked like a lamppost.

 _Holy shit_. Chuuya’s eyes were so wide, they were burning. _Did he do this to all these people?_

His hands balled into fists. The sight of the bodies made his vision begin to blur. Before he could stop himself, his voice burst out of his throat.

“ _Oi_!”

The man immediately froze. Then he turned his head.

His blond hair was a shock against the drab of the city. His eyes hid behind sunglasses, but Chuuya could feel their glare like a bullet in the chest. His bartender’s uniform was frayed at the sleeves, but otherwise immaculate. If it hadn’t been for the blood all over his face, he would’ve looked like a gentleman.

Chuuya felt a tremendous shiver run down his spine.

“Who are you?” he growled. His voice was deep and guttural. Even speaking softly, he could be heard across the street.

“Me?” Chuuya retorted, slashing his hand around them. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“None of your business.” He swiveled around, facing him. “Get out of here before I bash your head in.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

The man’s eyebrows narrowed even deeper. A vein was visible in the corner of his forehead.

“You. You’re Heiwajima Shizuo, aren’t you?”

“So what if I am?”

“I may not be one to talk, considering my position. But looking at what you’ve done...it disgusts me.” A vicious grin tore up his face. “That’s why it’ll be such a pleasure to kill you!”

He charged forward. He honed his ability, compressing it, transforming his body into a battering ram. He managed to close the distance, but before he could strike, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye. He leaped up seconds before impact, the lamppost just missing the side of his face.

He hovered in midair. Shizuo glared up at him as if he were a pest.

“What the hell are you?” he yelled. “Is this some kind of trick?”

“Want to find out?” Chuuya demanded, then came pummeling down.

The street crackled under the force, breaking apart. Chuuya grabbed hold of his ability. The pavement peeled, ripping away from the foundation. Chuuya sent a chunk hurtling Shizuo’s way; it streaked through the air like a meteor.

There was a sickening _crunch_. Chuuya blinked, and he almost missed it. The fragment, big enough to blast holes in _buildings_ , was clutched between Shizuo’s hands.

 _He_ caught _that?_

Then came a scream. Not one of pain, but pure, unfiltered rage.

“ _Argh_! Why does this always have to happen?” Shizuo tossed it aside as if it were a basketball. The remnants of the crowd that were still hanging around scurried back, crying out in surprise. “I _hate_ violence! And yet it always seems to find me!”

He stormed Chuuya’s way. Chuuya stiffened, prepared to duck, but Shizuo reached for a mailbox instead. Chuuya watched in disbelief as he tore it away from the street, catching the shriek of crushing metal. Shizuo hoisted it over his head. His expression was twisted, teeth bared like a shark.

Then, it flew. Chuuya barely had a second to think. The mailbox bore down on him, bright red and angry, like a missile. At the last second, he whipped up his hands, meeting it with the front of his power.

Against the force of gravity, it stood no chance. Chuuya’s ability caught it like a flame, and the mailbox burst apart with a shattering _boom_. The sound of the explosion made his ears start to ring. Underneath it, he could hear his heartbeat.

It was _thundering_.

Panting, he began to grin. The grin became a laugh. The laugh became a giddy fit, his excitement so strong it was tearing his body apart.

“Amazing,” he breathed. “You really are amazing!”

All eyes were on him. They probably suspected he was completely mad—and Chuuya had to admit that maybe he was, just a little bit. To feel this alive when he had brushed so close with death must mean that some part of him had bent. But Chuuya knew that already.

“Come at me, Heiwajima Shizuo!” he cried. “Fight me with all your strength!”

At his declaration, Shizuo broke into a smile. It was the most violent thing about him at that moment.

“You know,” he said. “I don’t know what to do with you.” His fist wrapped around the base of a street sign. It crumpled like paper. “But if it’s a fight you want!”

He swung. Chuuya jumped in response. He surrounded himself with his ability; it buzzed like a hive of angry bees.

 _Getting close to him is a bad idea_ , he thought. _But if I can just get a hand on him—_

He rushed toward Shizuo, moving through the air like a missile. Shizuo dodged to the side. Chuuya turned his head; he saw him curl back the sign as if it were a baseball bat.

_Shi—!_

Chuuya managed to swerve out of the way, pressing himself to the side of a building. Shizuo was right on top of him. Chuuya made another leap as the face of the sign came hammering down, inches from where he’d been.

_He’s fast. Too fast!_

He dove into the air. Ikebukuro shrank underneath him, but he could still see Shizuo’s figure down below. He was watching him, assessing his next move. Grinning all the while.

Chuuya clicked his tongue. _This isn’t even cat and mouse_ , he thought. _He’s trying to squash me like a bug._ His ability amplified; it shivered across his skin.

“What the—” Shizuo exclaimed. He was being lifted into the air. Chuuya’s ability wrapped around him like rope, immobilizing him. He thrashed, but could not break the bonds. Chuuya smiled in triumph.

_But all it takes is a single touch._

“Stand still for me, would you?”

Chuuya came down like a javelin. He saw Shizuo’s eyes widen before his foot crushed his face. His body smashed into the road, then lay still. Chuuya landed on his feet, then hesitated, wary. There was a silence, one that seemed to envelop the entire city.

Then Shizuo began to move. Chuuya’s heart jumped into his throat.

“That was quite some kick,” Shizuo grumbled, sitting up. With a flick of his wrist, he set his nose back in place with a sickening _pop_. Blood flowed down from his nostrils, leaking into his mouth. Shizuo pushed himself up, then cracked his neck. “I almost felt it.”

He disappeared. At least, that’s what it seemed like. He never actually saw Shizuo run forward, never saw him raise his fist. He only felt it connect, then the blinding, staggering pain.

He hit the pavement in a roll, managing to turn his body. He landed on all fours, sliding back a safe distance, his hand clamped over his face. He coughed; blood spattered on the ground. His left cheek was screaming. It felt like the entire half of his face had torn off.

“Oh?” Shizuo called, his voice lazy. “You’re still standing?”

Chuuya’s attack hadn’t seemed to phase him at all. He’d put the entire force of gravity into that kick, and he was walking and talking like it was nothing more than a paper cut.

 _I could lose_. The thought sent his heart racing. He hacked again and tasted the blood as it dribbled from his mouth. _I could actually lose._

“Oi, you. After all that talk, and now you’re going to quit on me? I detest violence, but what I hate even more is cowardly slime like you.”

Chuuya went rigid. He let out a little laugh. “A coward?”

“Hm?”

“Never,” he said, hoisting himself to his feet, “call me a coward.” He scraped his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood around his face. “Call me slime all you want, but I never, ever back down from a fight.”

“That so?” Shizuo cracked his knuckles. “Glad to hear it. Let’s finish this, then.”

“With _pleasure_!”

Shizuo grabbed hold of a nearby trash bin. With a beastly roar, he wrenched it up and chucked it in Chuuya’s direction. Chuuya enhanced his ability, preparing to counterattack.

“Now, now, that’s no good. Fighting very bad.”

Chuuya hadn’t seen him approach, but once he had, he wondered how he could have missed him. Standing between him and Shizuo was a hulking black man, dressed in a white sushi uniform. He watched as he reached his arms up and caught the trash bin as if it were a child. The way he braced his foot was the only indication that he’d felt the impact at all.

Chuuya stared, mouth agape. _What the hell_. _Is everyone in this fucking city freakishly strong?_

The man plunked the bin down, then turned to peer at him. Chuuya found himself sucked in by his blank, empty stare.

“You. You not Izaya,” he said, in very broken Japanese. “Why you fight Shizuo?”

“Izaya?” Chuuya repeated, immediately confused. “Who’s Izaya?”

“Shizuo!” Chuuya turned his head at the sound of the new voice. A man with tan skin and dreadlocks came rushing in, his suit rumpled, completely out of breath. “Damn it, Shizuo,” he cursed. “You overdid it this time! The police let you off only because they don’t believe you actually exist. If you attract more attention, it’ll become a problem!”

“So I’m supposed to let you get beat up?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Chuuya’s eyes flickered between the two, then back up to the black man, who was still glaring at him. Then a light bulb turned on in his head.

“You must be Simon,” he whispered.

Simon beamed. “You like sushi? Sushi make you feel good. Stomach full, no more fighting.”

“I see.” He glanced at Shizuo and his companion, who was inspecting his crudely-fixed broken nose. “Who are you?”

The man looked at him, expression quizzical. “I’m Tom, his employer,” he replied. “Who’re you?”

“ _Employer_? Wait.” He eyed the bodies surrounding them, his confusion mounting. “Wait. What’s going on?”

Tom tilted his head. “I feel like we should be asking you the same thing.”


	5. What's Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is where the aforementioned vague references to the Fifteen light novel are, but I promise that in case you don't know what happens, I haven't spoiled anything. Trust me, I didn't mean to get spoiled, either. It was an accident. (But I'm glad that I did because otherwise, this fic would be extremely different.)
> 
> Enjoy!

“I see...So you’re his bodyguard.” Chuuya took a sheepish drink of tea. “My bad.”

“You’re not the first person to pick a fight with Shizuo,” Tom said, trying to be reassuring. “Don’t worry about it.”

“No, no. I completely misread the situation.” Chuuya set his cup down. He folded his hands in front of his mouth. “I didn’t realize that those men had ambushed you. Now I feel like an idiot.”

“Like I said, it’s fine.” Shizuo took a slurp of milk. He sat between Chuuya and Tom, which, Chuuya had to admit, was making him a little nervous. Shizuo was speaking so nonchalantly, and compared to the man he’d been fighting not an hour earlier, it was a bit surreal. It was like he was talking to a completely different person.

“More importantly,” Shizuo continued. “I’m surprised you’re still conscious.”

“How do your adversaries usually end up, then?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted, shrugging. “In the hospital, I think.”

They had congregated inside of Russia Sushi. Chuuya wasn't sure how it happened, but the three of them had gathered at the bar and started chatting, as if they were drinking buddies going out for a pint. Tom had done most of the talking so far, explaining his occupation and its relevance to Shizuo. He'd told him that he was an underground debt collector, and since it warranted danger, he'd hired Shizuo to protect him. The two were old friends from middle school, and when Shizuo had a hard time holding down a job, he'd hired him as an employee.

Simon appeared, making Chuuya jump. He placed their sushi in front of them and clapped his ginormous hands together.

“Eat, eat!” he urged. “Sushi very good. Enjoy, yeah?”

“Th...thank you very much,” Chuuya mumbled, picking up his chopsticks. “ _Itadakimasu_.”

They dug in. Chuuya took a tentative bit of his shrimp tempura roll. He was surprised when the flavors flooded his mouth: the crispy shrimp, the crunch of the cucumber and avocado, and the eel sauce, which was the perfect balance of sweet and salty. For the first time since he'd arrived in Ikebukuro, he began to relax.

“It’s delicious.” He gave Simon a smile. He was waiting on another pair of customers down the bar. When he saw Chuuya’s expression, he grinned in return, flashing a thumbs-up.

“It’s a bit eccentric,” Tom piped in. “But the food is really good.”

“Mm,” Shizuo agreed.

“So, Chuuya-san.” Tom swallowed his food. “What exactly do you do? Aren’t you still in school?”

“No.”

“That can’t be right. How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“So you’ve graduated?”

“I was tutored at home,” Chuuya told him, not untruthfully. Kouyou had done him the grace of providing a somewhat blemished education. She'd taught him constructs of math, history, science, and Japanese. They were for the mafia’s benefit, but Chuuya had taken it upon himself to go further. He’d been studying French by himself for a year now.

“Then what is it that you do now?” Shizuo asked. He seemed genuinely interested. Chuuya felt compelled to answer, but he treaded carefully.

“I used to be in a gang,” he said. “But now I’m into investing.”

“Investing what?”

 _Drugs. Weapons. Extortion. Murder._ “Stocks.”

“Ah,” Tom mused. Shizuo stuffed his mouth with salmon nigiri.

They chewed in silence. Eventually, Tom set his chopsticks down, stretched, and stood from his stool.

“I’m going to use the restroom,” he announced. He tossed a pointed look at Shizuo. “Don’t cause any trouble.”

“I won’t. Jeez.”

After he left, the two of them stared at their plates. Chuuya tapped the tips of his chopsticks. He bit his lip. “I'm sorry.”

“I told you to stop apologizing.”

“But I…” Chuuya’s fist clenched. “I _attacked_ you.”

“You aren’t the first.” Shizuo leaned his head in his hand. “Besides, it’s not like I can blame you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anyone would come to the same conclusion, judging by what you saw.” He poked at his sashimi. “You were doing what you thought was right.”

 _Not really_ , Chuuya wanted to say, but he didn’t. It wasn’t like he could reveal his true intentions—especially not to his _target_. “You seem awfully composed about all this.”

“Like I’ve been saying, I’m used to it.” He held up his hand, glaring at it. “This strength that I have...it’s a curse, you know? I can’t control it. So more often than not, I only bring trouble.” He set it down between them. “I used to hate myself. Really, really hate myself.”

Chuuya stared at him, unsure of what to say.

“All I did was hurt people. I’d hurt others and I’d hurt myself. I couldn’t stop it, no matter how hard I tried. I’d think, ‘What did I do to deserve this?’ I’d ask and ask, but I never got an answer.”

Chuuya felt subdued. “What did you do, then?”

“I stopped caring.” He said it so easily. “I came to accept myself for who I am. Mulling over it did jack shit, right?”

Chuuya laughed. “I guess you’re right.” His gaze fixed on a point in the distance. “I’m the same way, actually.”

“Yeah?”

"My ability." He tapped the rim of his teacup, and with the lightest of tugs, it began to hover in mid-air. "In its raw state, all it can do is cause destruction. I rage until I die." He pursed his lips as the memories rose to the surface. "In my old gang...I was nothing more than their ace in the hole. All they wanted was my power." The teacup settled back onto the counter with a _clink_.

“I didn’t think...that I was human,” he whispered. His fists clenched. “I couldn’t understand...what I was.”

 _Shut up_ , a voice in his head hissed. He gripped the counter and forced himself down to earth, remembering who he was sitting with. He cleared his throat. “That’s all in the past, though,” he said, chuckling awkwardly. “I’m in a better place now.”

Shizuo tilted his head. “So, are you like Celty, then?”

“‘Like Celty’?”

“The Black Rider.”

“We’ve met,” Chuuya amended. “But what do you mean, am I like her?”

“Well, you know.”

Chuuya stared at him, unable to fathom what he was saying.

“You mean you _don’t_ know?” Shizuo asked, his eyes bugging.

“I guess I don’t.”

“She doesn’t have a head.” He pointed to his neck. “There’s nothing under her helmet.”

“ _What_?” he exclaimed. Everyone in the restaurant whipped around to look at him. He lowered his voice, leaning his head in. “Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

“How?”

“Well, I don’t know all the details, but…”

He began to recount what he knew. Chuuya sat in rapturous silence, as attentive as a child listening to a bedtime story. Tom came back from the bathroom and resumed his seat, but didn't join in their conversation. He cast Shizuo a secretive, fond smile, then took a bite of sushi.

* * *

 When they left Russia Sushi, it was completely black outside, save for the city lights. They tossed shadows in already dark corners, but Chuuya didn’t feel the slightest ill at ease. In fact, he was smiling his biggest one of the day.

“I see. So she’s a dullahan.” His mind whirled with information. “ _Amazing_.”

“She’s pretty cool, yeah.” Shizuo began fishing through his pockets. He removed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, then put one between his teeth. Noticing Chuuya’s stare, he offered them out to him. “You smoke?”

“On rare occasions,” he admitted. He hesitated, even as his skin crawled. “You don’t mind?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you.” He took one immediately. Shizuo lit his for him, then his own. Chuuya took a long drag, sucking the nicotine into his body. He eyed the carton. “American Spirits?”

“Blues.”

“Nice.” He breathed out, the smoke blooming in front of his face. He joined Shizuo and leaned against the side of the building, staring out at the empty street. To their left, Tom chatted on the phone, his voice quiet and indistinct.

Chuuya knocked his head back. “You know, Shizuo, I’m glad I met you. You’re not a bad guy at all.”

“‘Course not,” he grumbled. He tapped his filter. “Did you think I was?”

“Nah, just...the things I’ve heard.”

“Ah.”

“I wanted to see you for myself, so I came here. You’re not at all how they said you were.”

“Mm.”

Inhale, exhale. Chuuya’s eyelids were beginning to grow heavy. It’d been a long day, and he could tell that it would be an even longer night. The cigarette was doing wonders for his nerves, but it was relaxing him too well, making him sleepy. His body was still bursting with adrenaline, but it was starting to wear down. He could feel his energy draining by the second.

A thought probed at the corner of his mind. _Why do I feel like I’m forgetting something?_

“You ‘came’ here…” Shizuo said, almost to himself. “Where are you from, then?”

“Yokohama.”

“Yokohama? You came all the way here by yourself just for that?”

“No, I came here with—”

“With me.”

His cigarette was snatched right out of his hand. It snapped Chuuya out of his reverie like a bucket of cold water. He whipped around to find Dazai hidden behind him, standing half in silhouette. His face was streaked with shadows.

“You!” he cried. His heart was hammering. “Where did you come from? Where have you been?”

“I told you, Shinjuku.” Dazai chucked the cigarette to the ground, then stamped it out with his shoe. He fixed Chuuya with a forbidding glare. “You know I hate it when you smoke.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from yo—” He stopped cold. He’d finally noticed the expression on Dazai’s face. “Wait.” He lowered his voice. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Don’t give me that shit.” He leaned his head in. “What did you do?”

Dazai’s eyes bored into him. They were such wide, empty things. They were so dark, light was never able to reach them. The sight of them chilled Chuuya to the very core.

At last, Dazai looked away. “I didn’t do anything,” he said, insistent. “It didn’t work out. That’s all.” His eyes latched on something behind him. Chuuya turned his head and saw Shizuo, standing back. Watching.

“Ah.” Chuuya gestured with his hand. “This is Heiwajima Shizuo.”

Dazai nodded his head. “Dazai. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Dazai did not offer his hand to shake, perhaps sensing that if he did, he would tear it off. He was squinting at him in suspicion, his hands in his pockets but his shoulders drawn as tight as a bow. Chuuya reckoned his fingers were already wrapped around his gun.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“He’s too strong, Dazai. He’ll destroy us both.”

“Then all the more reason to immobilize him. Have you forgotten what our orders are? Besides.” His grin was cocky. “Once I get a hand on him, his strength means nothing.”

Chuuya gritted his teeth. His mind was flailing in panic. As loyal as he was to the Port Mafia, and as much as he knew he needed to see this mission through, Shizuo’s words still weighed on his conscious. He could still taste the remains of his cigarette in his mouth.

_So more often than not, I only bring trouble._

_Shit,_ Chuuya thought. _Shit, shit, shit, shit_.

“Hey, Heiwajima-san,” Dazai called, stepping around him. “I met with a friend of yours today.”

Chuuya actually felt the air around them harden. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“It was, but I’ll admit it was a very bad one.” Dazai continued to approach, not sensing the danger he was facing, or if so, batting it away. “Truth be told, the man is disgusting.”

Chuuya whirled around. The cigarette in Shizuo’s hand had snapped in half. His heart fell at his feet.

 _SHIT_.

"His name was Orihara Izaya." Dazai lifted a hand. "Sound familiar?" He made contact with Shizuo's shoulder. At that moment, time seemed to stop.

Chuuya knew what he was supposed to do, but still, he hesitated. His feet froze; his arms and legs were made of cement. His vision had locked on one thing, and it filled his mind, consumed everything that he had ever known.

Shizuo’s expression. It was the raw, blistered fury of an old wound, one that never healed but just reopened, over and over and over.

“Chuuya!” Dazai yelled, but it was too late.

Shizuo snatched a fist full of Dazai’s coat and _threw_. Dazai soared through the air, whipping past Chuuya and smashing into the side of a building. The wall nearly collapsed under the force, and afterward, Dazai only lay there, motionless.

“Dazai!” Chuuya raced over to him. When he got close, he heard the sound of Dazai’s moans, saw him clutching his right shoulder, which had received most of the blow. His head had been struck as well; there was a trail of blood running down his cheek. His face was twisted into an ugly grimace.

“Dazai! Are you okay?”

“That’s...not…” Dazai tried to say.

“What?”

“Not...an ability.” His eyes were goggling from his head. “My power...did nothing.”

“ _What_?”

There came a scream. It was exhumed from the very center of the earth. It was such an inhuman noise that at first, Chuuya didn’t register that it was coming from Shizuo’s mouth.

“ _Are you kidding me_?” he bellowed. “You’ve got to be kidding me, _right_?”

“Shizuo—”

“That fucking _flea_. I’m going to kill him. I’ll kill him! But first.” That brutal grin reappeared. “I’m going to kill _you_.”

He was standing next to a vending machine. For a second, Chuuya thought that he was going to lift it—but he didn’t.

He reached for the car that had parked next to it.

Chuuya’s dread congealed into horror. He seized Dazai’s shoulders.

“Dazai. Get up.”

“Go.”

“Don’t be stupid. Come _on_.” There was a quaver in Chuuya’s voice. He was talking too fast. “If we don’t move now, he’s going to kill us.”

“Someone has...to take care of him.” Dazai winced as another spasm of pain hit his body. “Might as well...be me.”

“Are you out of your fucking _mind_? What makes you think you can take him on? _Get up_!”

Just then, Chuuya heard Shizuo’s roar. He caught the squeal and creak of the aluminum body as its shape was contorted, strained, lifted into the air. His cool completely snapped. “Dazai!”

He heard the heave; he felt the massive shadow loom over his back. He’d run out of time.

He didn’t even think. He threw himself in front of Dazai. His power shot up and through his body in the space of a second. He braced his hands in front of his face and _pushed_ , thrusting every ounce of it against the momentum of the rushing car. It stopped a foot in front of them.

Chuuya's breathing came in gasps. He strained, pulled, then dropped the car. It smashed to the ground, bounced for a moment, and then lay still as if it had never moved in the first place.

He whirled on Dazai, who was gaping at him, wide-eyed. He snatched his arm; at this point, he didn’t care if he ripped it off. “I said _get up_ , you dumbass!”

"Wh—" Dazai tried to yell, but it was pointless. Chuuya was already running, dragging Dazai behind him, propelling them as fast as he could go. Eventually, Dazai started carrying himself and ran by his side. They tore through the streets, running, running, widening the distance between them and Ikebukuro.

Chuuya thought that Shizuo would chase them. He didn’t.

* * *

 When they reached the station, they collapsed: Chuuya on all fours, Dazai on his back. The last train hadn’t gone yet, but it was silent. They were the only two people around.

The blood on Dazai’s face had dried; it traced across his skin like a burn. He was still gripping his shoulder. Between wheezing breaths, he demanded, “Why...didn’t you fight?”

“Hah?” Chuuya panted.

“When you...had the...chance.” With effort, Dazai hoisted himself up to a sitting position. “You...hesitated.”

“...Oh.” Chuuya shifted, sitting beside him. He felt his chest; his heart was still racing. “I...couldn’t.”

“You ‘couldn’t’?”

“It wouldn’t...have been right.” Chuuya dropped his hand. “It would’ve been worse than fighting myself.”

“Chuuya.” Dazai glared at him. “Have you forgotten what our orders are? If Shizuo was deemed a threat, we were supposed to—”

“I’m telling you, _I couldn’t_! Okay? I mean, don’t I get a say in whether I should fight or not? Don’t you trust me at _all_?”

Chuuya hadn’t meant to yell. His head started to pound, and he tangled his fingers through his hair. He really, really wanted to go home at that moment. He wanted to escape to a small, dark place and have this day disappear.

“...You’re right.”

Chuuya looked up. “What?”

“You shouldn’t have to fight...if you don’t want to.” Dazai’s gaze was far away. “That should be your decision.”

Chuuya watched him warily, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never came. He began to feel uneasy. “Dazai?”

“Hm?”

“You are Dazai, right?”

“Of course I am.”

“You sure as hell don’t _sound_ like him. What is up with you? You were acting strange back there, too."

“I was?”

“That whole self-sacrificing bullshit. If you _ever_ try that again, I will crush you myself.”

Dazai chuckled weakly. “You don’t think the hero role suits me?”

“You? A _hero_? Dazai.” Chuuya’s voice dropped. “What happened in Shinjuku?”

Dazai didn’t answer at first. Chuuya felt pressed to shake him, to rattle the answers out of him, but then he lifted his head.

“Chuu...ya…” Dazai started to say, but he didn’t make it. He fell forward, collapsing on Chuuya’s lap.

“Oi! Dazai?” Chuuya exclaimed. He began to panic until he saw Dazai’s chest rise, then fall. He’d fainted from blood loss and lack of oxygen. He expelled a sigh of relief. “You dumbass.”

He combed his fingers through Dazai’s hair, tucking it away from his face so he could see the damage better. Dried blood had snarled his already unruly strands. The wound was considerably large, but not too deep. It looked worse than it was, but he would still need to get checked out.

“Dumbass,” he repeated, softer. He swept his thumb across the trail of red on his cheek, smearing it. Dazai’s eyelids fluttered as if he were dreaming.

He heard the train approaching in the distance. Carefully, he stood, hauling Dazai’s limp body up with him. He threw his arm around his shoulder and almost went tumbling down for his trouble.

“God, you’re heavy,” he grumbled. “What do you eat? Lead? Actually,” he added, thinking. “You might.”

The train came rushing in. Their hair got caught up in the wind, sending it billowing upwards. Dazai’s bandages rippled but stayed in place. They were firmly attached to him now, a second skin. He’d grown into them and they had grown with him. Chuuya couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen both of Dazai’s eyes. He wondered if he ever would again.

The train slowed, stopped. The doors opened. Chuuya adjusted Dazai’s weight and dragged him inside.


	6. Fools

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drum rolls* Here is the promised smut. Enjoy!

“I would like an explanation.”

Mori sat behind his desk, his chin in his hand. He was smiling, but it didn't do anything to release the menace that was emanating from his body; it only amplified it. He was a man that not only enjoyed imperiling others but reveled in it.

If anything, his smile looked wider than usual.

Dazai and Chuuya stood side by side in Mori’s office. It was a dim, iniquitous place, and whenever he was in it, Chuuya felt slightly unnerved. While Dazai looked straight ahead, Chuuya had bowed his head and removed his hat. He was crushing it to his chest, probably contorting its shape, but he didn’t have the time to worry about that. His brain was running at high speed, jumping from one thing to the next.

“Sir,” Chuuya said. “I apologize. It’s my fault.”

“I didn’t ask for an apology. I want an _explanation_.” Mori tapped his desk impatiently. “What happened with Heiwajima Shizuo?”

Chuuya swallowed the rock in his throat. His eyes flickered back to the doors. Two men stood guarding it like an iron wall, the guns in their hands large and loaded. He faced forward and took a silent breath.

"While it's true that he possesses unparalleled strength, I don't believe he poses a threat and that confronting him would be ill-advised."

“Interesting,” Mori commented. “How so?”

“He hates violence, sir.”

Mori frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

“He doesn’t seek it out.”

“I don’t follow.”

“If someone like Dazai or I were to attack him, he would return the favor in kind—but as an individual. He wouldn’t go one step further and cross the mafia’s threshold because it would only invoke more trouble. However, if we as a force tried to take him down, that would be a different matter.”

“And you deem us incapable of doing so?”

“I’m afraid so, sir.”

Mori’s icy glare pierced his heart. “Elaborate.”

Chuuya’s hand clenched around his hat. “I couldn’t match him, sir. Not only is he strong, he’s indestructible. And with Dazai’s nullifying ability out of the picture, that shrinks our advantage even further. He could decimate the entire organization, but...although that’s true, I don’t think there’s any risk of him doing so.”

Chuuya held his breath, waiting for his reproach like a firing squad. A hundred vivid images flashed through his mind of past victims and the torture they’d put upon them. The punishment for disobedience was death, but Chuuya knew all too well that there were so many ways that could come about.

“I see,” Mori mused. “Good, then.”

Chuuya’s head snapped up. “Sir?”

“If Heiwajima was not considered a threat, you were to leave him alone, isn’t that right? You followed my orders to T.” He fiddled with the pen on his desk, turning it this way and that. He appeared troubled. “And since he ‘hates violence,’ as you say, there’s no chance of him joining?”

“No, sir.”

Mori clicked his tongue and set his pen down. “That is unfortunate.” His eyes caught Chuuya’s, and he broke into a devious grin. “Don’t look so dour, Chuuya-kun. You did well.”

“I...I did?”

“Indeed.” Mori stood, circling his desk. “You were concerned for the safety of our organization and chose not to jeopardize it. You truly are one of my most loyal subordinates.” He placed his hand on Chuuya’s head. A chill seeped from his palm into Chuuya’s body. “We are a family, are we not? However,” he added, brushing Chuuya’s hair. “I must warn you. If Heiwajima chooses to confront either of you, it will be deemed a personal matter. Is that understood?”

“Ye…yes, sir.”

“Good.” He removed his hand. Chuuya realized he hadn’t been breathing and sucked in a breath.

Mori walked back to his desk. "That reminds me," he said. "Dazai-kun. I would like to speak to you privately if I could?"

“Yes, sir.” It was the first time he’d spoken the entire time. His expression was unreadable.

“All right, then. Chuuya-kun, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Yes, sir.” Chuuya bowed and made his leave. The guards held the doors open for him, and they slammed on his back, cutting him off.

He made his way down to the ground floor. The strength in his muscles had completely evaporated; he had no idea what was carrying him forward now. _I didn’t expect that to turn out the way it did._ He fiddled with the cuff of his gloves. _I was so certain I would be punished_. _Did that actually happen, or am I dreaming right now? Is there something I missed?_

He spun these thoughts around in a circle as he stepped outside. Even the night was scalding hot. It hadn’t rained for a few days, and it felt like one snap would set the city ablaze. It was always charged, Yokohama. Its familiar current coursed across Chuuya’s skin. He smiled to himself.

_It’s good to be back. Ikebukuro just isn’t the same._

The doors opened behind him, and he turned. He was shocked to find Dazai walking out, looking completely unruffled.

“That was quick,” he commented. “What did the boss want?”

“He had a couple questions he wanted to ask me.”

“And? What were they? You still haven’t told—Oi.” Dazai was moving in, and he hadn’t slowed down. “What are you—”

Dazai swung his arms around Chuuya’s shoulders. Before he knew what was happening, he was practically lifted off of his feet. Dazai stooped his head and kissed him, urgently. It was almost powerful enough to smother him to death.

Chuuya was so shocked that at first, he didn’t react. He could only gape wide-eyed at Dazai’s blurry form. He squirmed in his grip and broke free, gasping for air.

“You—! What are you doing?” he demanded. Dazai didn’t answer. He tried to kiss him again, but Chuuya pushed him away. “Stop! Answer me!”

“Chuuya.”

“What?”

“Chuuya,” Dazai repeated. He caressed his cheek. The touch was so tender that Chuuya’s breath caught. His skin tingled where his fingers brushed. He wanted more than anything to hide, to avert his gaze, but Dazai had him trapped.

It was his eyes. It always was—but this time, they weren’t the pitiless, vacant pools he was used to. They glimmered. Not the bright, ardent light he wanted to see, but something cooler, more desolate. They were the reflection of the moon on the ocean at night; they were a single candle in a dark window. Chuuya’s already racing heart began to ache.

“Dazai?” He’d softened his voice. “What is it?”

"I just...I…" He took in a deep breath. He blinked slowly as if he were pulling himself back together. Then he opened his eyes again. "Can you come over?" he breathed. "Please." His other hand cupped Chuuya's cheek, then slipped into his hair. He pressed their foreheads together. "I need you."

* * *

Chuuya hated Dazai’s place the most. A house spoke volumes of its owner, and Dazai’s was dank and dark. Clothes were strewn across every surface, he scarcely cleaned, and he always left his shit lying around. But more than that, it was the little things. Empty bottles of _sake_ broken in the trash; a knife sitting in the kitchen sink; a gun left on the coffee table. Every time he saw them, Chuuya grew cold.

But his favorite place was his bed. It smelled just like him: his cologne fused with the distant aroma of alcohol; the trace of ink from pens leaking onto his fingers; and every now and then, the ripe, unmistakable stench of blood. It was a sickly, pungent smell, one that made Chuuya want to gag, but it could only belong to one person. When he smelled it on the bed, combined with the sight of the disheveled sheets, it meant that Dazai had gone to sleep the night before—or at least he’d tried to. He hadn’t spent it wandering the city, searching for death in every alley or on top of every tall building.

When Dazai pushed him onto the pillows, it enveloped him like a cloud. He breathed it in, and it coursed into his body like a shot of morphine. He stared up at Dazai’s face, hovering over him, with his unwavering stare. He watched him lick his lips before he bent to kiss him.

Very few things about Dazai were soft. He was like a barbed-wire fence: nobody faced him and walked away without cuts on their hands. Even though Dazai was the biggest asshole he’d ever met, and his list of faults could fill an entire library, he still had a lot to love. He was cunning; he was resourceful. He had a mind like the inside of a castle, dusky and twisted and full of traps. He moved forward whether the ground underneath his feet was steady or not. And of course, there was his voice, his devious grin, his irresistible lure. Dazai was a dark and forbidden creature, like one from a fairy tale. He was capable of enchanting and taking you away.

But when he kissed Chuuya, there was nothing malicious behind it. His soft lips, his flushed skin, the way his body leaned closer to his—Chuuya felt all of it. He shivered with the same desire.

Dazai’s tongue slipped into his mouth, his kisses becoming sloppier, hungrier. Chuuya’s head was light. His skin tingled everywhere Dazai touched, a hot chill creeping down from his head to his toes. He moaned when Dazai released him to kiss along his neck, his chin scraping his jaw. His hair tickled his face.

“Dazai...Ah.” He twitched as Dazai’s tongue trailed to his ear. “W-wait.”

“Why?” Dazai bit his earlobe. “It’s fine, isn’t it?”

“That’s not...it.” Words kept slipping from his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and twisted the comforter. “L-let me.”

“Mm? Do what?”

_Get up_ , Chuuya thought, desperate. Dazai knew his ears were one of his weaknesses; it was why he was attacking them so relentlessly now. Gritting his teeth, he lashed out. His fingers wrapped around Dazai’s tie, and he yanked him so they were face-to-face.

“Lead. Dumbass,” he panted, out of breath.

He shoved him to the side and rolled on top of him. Dazai hit the pillow with a little cry of surprise. His eyes were wide as he looked up at Chuuya, the front of his shirt rumpled and his hair disheveled. The sight made Chuuya swallow.

Dazai recovered, his grin sliding back into place. “All right, then. Now what?”

“Now...this.”

Chuuya sucked a kiss from his mouth, relishing the sound of Dazai’s moan as he stole away his breath. His tongue trailed across his lip once, scraping the edge of his teeth, then dove for his cheek. Dazai shivered. Chuuya smirked to himself and trailed his hand further, further down Dazai’s body.

Dazai jerked. “Chuuya—”

“Yes?” Chuuya’s voice dripped with sugary innocence. Dazai recoiled as he felt him through his pants, squeezing around his shaft, stroking along his perineum. The more he moved, the more desperate Dazai became. Half of him wanted to pry away, while the other half was submerged in pleasure.

“Chuu...ya.” Dazai grated his teeth. “Stop…”

"Okay." Chuuya slipped his fingers up. "How about this, then?" With a slight of hand, Chuuya unclasped Dazai's belt and pulled it down, catching his underwear with it. He slunk down to Dazai's hips. As soon as Dazai caught on, he immediately scrambled up.

“Chuuya, do—”

“Shut up,” he commanded, before taking Dazai’s cock into his mouth.

Truthfully, Chuuya didn’t enjoy doing this. The taste was sour, it was hard to breathe, and it felt disgusting. There was infinitely less pleasure on the giving end of the equation than the receiving. It was a wonder why he offered to do it at all.

That was simple. He loved seeing Dazai squirm. No sooner had he put his mouth on him than Dazai went rigid, his toes curling in on themselves. Chuuya gave him a few playful licks, dragging his tongue up close to the tip before swallowing him deep again. He hollowed his cheeks and breathed hot air onto his skin, sneaking a glance at him from underneath his eyelashes.

Dazai’s head had bowed back. His expression was stricken with ecstasy, his eyes scrunched shut. He lifted a hand and drove it into Chuuya’s hair.

“Fu...ck.” Dazai’s fingers clenched. “Yes... _yes_ , that's it… _fuck_.”

Chuuya sucked slowly, pressing his tongue against him, pushing to the root only to pull back up to the head. He began to moan under his breath, and the sensation made Dazai's hips snap. Chuuya almost choked. Glancing up again, he saw Dazai's eyes wide open and gleaming. He was hard and thick in his mouth and starting to twitch. He could tell he was close.

“Shit—Chuuya, coming—coming—”

Chuuya shoved the whole length into his mouth. His teeth barely grazed his skin, but Dazai was sensitive enough. His hips bucked and he came, clinging to Chuuya, a cry tearing from his throat as he was lost in his own bliss.

Chuuya waited until he finished, then pulled away. He swallowed, then coughed in disgust. “Ugh,” he groaned. “It’s terrible.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I really don’t know how people _enjoy_ the taste of—Dazai?”

Dazai had grown quiet. He was gazing at Chuuya with glittering eyes, his cheeks inflamed, his hair blown into disarray. He was panting, still coming down. Chuuya was about to call his name again when Dazai suddenly leaped up, snatching Chuuya by the shoulders.

"Daza—Hey!" He was thrown back onto the comforter, and then Dazai was all around him, swarming him. His body pressed down, and he kissed him again. It was hard, lecherous, and needy, like he was a junkie on a high and Chuuya was his next fix. Chuuya tried to breathe around it, but it was impossible. Dazai's tongue was deep in his mouth. Eventually, he submitted to it, sinking deeper and deeper under his spell.

They helped each other undress. Dazai took his time with it, leaving his mark on every piece of flesh he exposed. Chuuya was less delicate, practically tearing apart Dazai’s white shirt to get it off, leaving Dazai thoroughly amused. Once it was, Chuuya was staring at his chest, his eyes roaming over the bandages that enfolded his body. He reached up, his touch sliding from his collarbone down to his stomach. Dazai sobered; his muscles were tense under Chuuya’s hands.

How many times had this man been shot? How many stabbed? How many of his wounds did he inflict himself, trying to break free of a body that had become a cage? How was this man even alive?

_Why does he do this to himself?_ Chuuya wanted to scream it. _Why does he want to die so badly?_

Dazai snuck a finger under Chuuya’s chin, and his thoughts unraveled. “Come here,” he murmured.

He raised Chuuya up and pulled him into his lap. Their skin was sticky with sweat, and every time they moved, it chafed. He heard Dazai rummage through his nightstand, and when he looked, he saw he’d taken out a bottle of lubricant. He stared at it suspiciously.

“What?” Dazai asked, squeezing some into his palm. It had a crisp, citrusy scent, like green apples.

“Since when do you have lubricant?” Chuuya demanded. He could count on two hands how many times Dazai had used saliva as a substitute.

“I bought it for you.”

“For me?”

“You always look like you’re in pain. I figured this would help.”

An invisible hand squeezed Chuuya’s chest. He hid his face in Dazai’s shoulder to conceal the blush on his cheeks. _Why is he being so sweet with me?_ He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists. _I_ hate _it._

Dazai slicked his fingers, then adjusted them, raising Chuuya up. Chuuya’s stomach flipped. “I’m going in,” he warned. He pushed his fingers inside.

The pain hit him first—it always did. It was hot, like sand on dry skin. Chuuya hissed and curled up, waiting for the wave to pass.

Dazai’s fingers froze. “Keep going,” Chuuya rasped.

Dazai shoved deeper, stretching him, making Chuuya grimace. He was holding his breath, but he couldn't force himself to let it out. Dazai quickened his pace, kissing Chuuya's ear to distract him. Eventually, the stinging pain began to abate, merging with a new sensation. It surged through Chuuya's body like an explosion.

“Fu…” He was choking on his own words. Dazai thrust faster, and Chuuya could only make small, inarticulate sounds. The pressure circulated through him, the lubricant subsiding the discomfort and leaving only the pleasure, hitting him in waves as Dazai’s fingers slipped in and out, brushing his prostate but never quite reaching it. Then Dazai drove them in deep, all at once, and Chuuya cried out.

“Ah!” Dazai rammed them in again, and Chuuya convulsed, his vision peppered with white. “Fu—Daza—!”

Dazai groaned. He ripped his fingers free and flung Chuuya back. Chuuya fell onto his side, delirious and out of breath, barely apprehending as Dazai lifted his leg. He gasped as he was yanked forward, then screamed when Dazai’s cock drove inside of him.

“ _Fuck_!” Chuuya’s fingers scraped the comforter. Heat erupted inside of his core as Dazai stretched around him, fulfilled him. Dazai slammed into him with a rough, vigorous thrust, knocking Chuuya’s senses loose, his whole body surrendering to the ecstasy.

“Da...zai,” Chuuya panted, buckling. “More...to the...right— _yes, right there_ — _Ah_!”

Dazai adjusted, and when his hips snapped forward, he collided with Chuuya's prostate. Chuuya let out a keening cry, quivering in bliss. Hot tears stung his eyes. Dazai groaned at the sound and thrust faster, his rhythm hard and punishing. His fingers slid across the milky white of Chuuya's thigh, leaving behind trails of red.

“Chuu...ya,” Dazai gasped, bowing his head back. “So good... _so fucking good_...”

"Dazai..." he pleaded. "Hard...harder..."

"Like this?" Dazai shoved in deep, pushing all the way inside.

" _Yes_!" Chuuya writhed. "Yes, yes... _fuck_."

He felt like he was being ripped at the seams, all the pressure built inside of him about to erupt. Dazai was pummeling into him with the crude, unabated vigor of a madman, his hands roaming across Chuuya’s body. His touch felt like an exposed wire.

Then, Dazai moved in, snatching Chuuya’s jaw and yanking it up, kissing him fervently. Chuuya was surprised and at first, he didn’t react, and when he tried to kiss him back, he couldn’t. He was breathing too hard. Then Dazai lashed forward one more time, and Chuuya’s head snapped back, his body shuddering.

“Shi—Dazai! Coming—!”

His orgasm was wrenched from him, and he came in waves, writhing across the bed. His brain went completely white, like he'd shot into the clouds. He came down slowly as Dazai shook inside of him, his own orgasm making him groan Chuuya's name.

They sat for a moment in silence, both of them panting. Then Dazai slipped out, collapsing on top of him. Chuuya grunted from the impact.

“Oi,” he complained. “You’re...heavy. Get off of me.”

“I love you.”

Chuuya hadn’t heard him right. He couldn’t have. He blinked. “What…” he tried to say. “What...did you…”

“I love you,” Dazai repeated. He pulled his head back and looked him dead in the eye. His voice quavered, but his gaze was firm. “I love you.”

Chuuya thought that his heart could race before, but he was wrong. It had reached Mach 1 and was hurtling straight for the nearest cliff. He couldn’t move; if he were able to, he’d use his ability to carve a hole to crawl inside of and die.

Dazai slumped forward again, hiding his face in the crook of Chuuya’s neck. Chuuya could only stare up at the ceiling, his cheeks raging with heat. Eventually, he circled his arms around Dazai’s back, squeezing as hard as he could. He felt tears gloss his eyes; he told himself they were just dry.

“I love you too,” he murmured. “Idiot.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was all right. *nervous sweating* I don't have a lot of confidence when it comes to writing smut. Still, I did my best!
> 
> Thank you to all that have read this far. There's one more chapter before I wrap this up, so please stay tuned!


	7. The Truth Untold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated Happy Birthday to Dazai! ハッピーバースデー、バカ鯖。♡
> 
> (To Dazai Osamu-sensei: お誕生日おめでとうございます！)

When Chuuya awoke, something was stroking his hair. He grunted as he stirred. His eyes were gritty from sleep.

It took him a minute to register that he was in Dazai’s bedroom. He didn’t know what time it was, but he figured it must be early morning because the room was completely black. He shifted, testing the surface underneath him. It was Dazai’s chest.

“You woke me up,” he grumbled. “Asshole.”

“Sorry,” Dazai told him. He didn’t sound sincere at all. His fingers combed Chuuya’s bangs back from his face, then let them fall across his eyes. Chuuya didn’t want to admit it, but it was soothing. For a man with such violent tendencies, he sure had a delicate touch.

They had curled up in Dazai’s bed, Chuuya laying on top of him. They were probably glued together—they hadn’t washed afterward—but Chuuya figured that was a matter that could wait until later. He pressed his cheek back onto Dazai. “If you’re sorry,” he mumbled, “then do something about it.”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Sing me a fucking lullaby.”

He’d meant it as a joke, but Dazai went quiet. “All right, then.”

He hummed a scale. Chuuya was still; he both heard and felt the reverberations in his chest. He caught himself tingling with anticipation. Dazai had a beautiful voice, he knew—as sweet as sugar and honey—but he rarely had a reason to sing.

Dazai took a breath. “ _Ai wa afureru mama ni...Kimi e to nagaredasu._ ”

_Ah_. Chuuya’s eyes fluttered shut. _This song_. The tension evaporated out of him immediately. He snuggled closer to Dazai. His voice washed over him, coaxing him back to sleep. Dazai stroked his back, moving his hand in circles.

“ _Nani wo miteru no? Nanimo iranai_ …”

Sleep pulled Chuuya down, and he sank underneath it, slowly, eagerly. Dazai surrounded him: his smell, his voice, his touch.

“ _Koi ni ochita mitai ni...Itoshii sugiru hito yo._ ”

Chuuya faded into unconsciousness.

* * *

Chuuya had fallen asleep long before Dazai had finished singing. When he’d sung the last note, he sat in the quiet, caressing Chuuya’s hair. He made sure to do it softly, as to not wake him again. He could barely see the pale moon of his face in the dark, but the sound of his breathing was a sure indication that he was dead to the world.

_He looks so much older now—nothing like the kid I met three years ago._

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Dazai craned his head toward it. He couldn’t remember if the forecast had called for rain, or if he’d even bothered to check. The weather had been so dry lately that he hadn’t suspected it would. It didn’t matter to him what the world decided to do, though. He had his own problems to worry about at the moment.

As if he’d summoned them, Mori’s words floated into his mind.

“ _So, Dazai-kun. Did you enjoy Shinjuku?_ ”

Dazai had stood in stunned silence. Mori’s smile was thin, and the eyes that bored down on him were as dead as a fish. He tilted his head.

“ _Tell me, how is Izaya-kun? I haven’t seen him in ages._ ”

_How had he known?_ That was the question that begged to be answered. Truthfully, though, Dazai didn’t need one. He already knew. He’d had his suspicions the moment he’d met Izaya; Mori’s questions were the final nail in the coffin.

His fingers clenched. Chuuya flinched, moaning, and Dazai forced his grip to relax. Chuuya shuffled on top of him, then lay still again.

_I can’t let them hurt you_. He palmed his cheek; it was still flushed. _They’ll play with you to get to me. If I let that happen, I could never forgive myself._

There was a knot in his throat. It hurt to swallow. His fingers scraped the back of Chuuya’s neck.

_His hair’s gotten so long. When did that happen?_

Outside, the sky opened up. Rain cascaded from the sky in sheets, an onslaught from a summer storm. And in the dark, tears slipped down Dazai’s cheeks, and he silently began to cry.

* * *

_(Shinjuku)_

Izaya heard the rain first. The drops pattered against his windowpane before mutating to a downpour. He glanced up from his computer screen, glaring at it with distaste.

_Ah. The storm is starting. This will alleviate the heat somewhat, but...I don’t enjoy being wet._

He stood from his seat and pressed a button on the wall. With a whir, rolling screens came down, closing the apartment off from the rest of the world. It became enclosed in darkness. Izaya crossed the room, flicking the switch to turn on the overhead lamp. The glow illuminated the bullet hole embedded in the wall, a blemish on an otherwise picturesque surface.

He sighed. _I’m going to have to get that fixed, aren’t I? I can’t have customers seeing it. Unless I can cover it up…_

His mind circled back to today’s meeting. An ugly smirk appeared on his lips as he remembered the expression on Dazai’s face.

_What an interesting specimen_ , he thought gleefully. _I absolutely despise him_.

He’d seen it in his eyes the moment he walked in: their lack of light. The way he carried himself, as straight as a doll, one push away from crumpling to the floor. When he’d entered Izaya’s apartment, his first impression had been that he was looking at a ghost. Surely this man was not alive.

Dazai not only loved death but desired it—was _infatuated_ with it. He had given up his humanity a long time ago. It begged the question of why he didn't kill himself—but glancing at him, with his mummified body and haunted gaze, it occurred to Izaya that the word was not _didn’t_ but _couldn’t_.

_He’s not human_ , Izaya thought. _Though he intrigues me, I cannot come to love him._

He closed the train of thought, as easily as shutting a book. He glanced at his computer out of the corner of his eye, surrounded by a halo of light. He’d been chatting on the forums before the storm had started, but he was weary from the long day and considering turning in.

_I’ll play with them tomorrow_. He sidled over to his desk. His fingers brushed the keyboard, and then his phone began to ring.

Izaya’s heart lurched. He patted his pocket before realizing that it was coming from the office phone. It rang again, lighting up, shrill in the empty quiet. Izaya watched it, dubious, before picking it up from the receiver. “Hello?”

“Izaya-kun. It’s been so long.”

Izaya stiffened. “Mori-san...It has been a while.” He resumed his seat in his chair. “What brings you to call me so late?”

“What a silly question. Isn’t it obvious? We had a deal.”

Cold crept through Izaya’s stomach. He grated his teeth. “We did,” he agreed. “But if my sources are correct, you did not fulfill your end of the bargain.”

“Did I not?” Mori asked, chuckling darkly. “If I remember correctly, the terms were that if I sent reinforcements to Ikebukuro, they would attempt to detain Heiwajima Shizuo. There was nothing explicit about them _succeeding_.”

"What's the point if they don't yield results?"

“Simple. Under my regime, effort comes first.”

Izaya clicked his tongue. “But—”

“Izaya-kun.”

His voice sent shivers rippling down Izaya’s spine. Mori didn’t have to phrase it in so many words; his tone was laced with unspoken threats. He clamped his hand around the desktop to keep it from trembling. Bracing himself, he let out a sigh.

“All right.” Typing with one hand, he pulled the file up on his computer. “They’re called Mimic. They’re a criminal organization from Europe led by a man named André Gide. They’re compiled of soldiers, but were labeled war criminals after their country betrayed them.”

“I see. Interesting,” Mori mused. “And you believe these people will fulfill my desire?”

“Yes.”

“How may I reach them?”

Izaya fed him the number. When they finished, Mori sounded amicable, almost cheerful. “Thank you so very much, Izaya-kun,” he crooned. “I look forward to doing business with you again.”

Izaya hung up without answering, slamming the phone down on the receiver. He stood up and scrubbed his hands across his face as if trying to peel away a layer of dirt. He breathed deeply through his nose.

He hated it. He _hated_ that there was one person that could make his skin crawl like this, who could wiggle their way into his brain. Even after all that effort, Shizuo was still alive, and Mori had shaken him down and run away with his pride.

_Forget it. I’m going to have to get more creative—or kill him myself._

There was a thundering knock at his door. Izaya snapped his head at it, eyes goggling.

_Who the—_

“Iiiiiiiiiizzzaaaaaaaayyyyyaaaaaaaa-kuuuuuuuuunnnnnnn,” a voice purred. “I know you’re in theeeeerrrrreeeeee.”

Izaya’s stomach dropped in a bloody pile at his feet. _Oh, shit_.

“Come out, come out, wherever you aaaaaaaarrrrrrrreeeeeee.”

Izaya swallowed. He knew he didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t answer, he would break down the door. He crept forward, slipping his knife into his hand and unfolding the blade.

“Well, Shizu-chan,” he called, his hand on the knob. “What’s with this late-night visit?”

“Oh, you know. I thought we could sit and have drinks, talk about the old days, and then later I could bash your skull in.”

“Oh?” Izaya chuckled. “That doesn’t sound like fun at all. How about I cut you to ribbons first?”

“Open the fucking door, you shitty flea.”

“Gladly,” he murmured, and wrenched it open, whipping his arm up at the same time.

Shizuo caught it easily, clenching his hand around Izaya’s forearm. Izaya yelped, feeling as if his muscles and his bones were being crushed to a pulp. The blade of his knife trembled inches from Shizuo’s face, which was twisted into a big, angry leer. He looked like a cocktail made of malice and rage.

“What’s this I hear of you sending people out to kill me, huh, Iiiiizzzaaaayyyaaaaa-kuuuuuuun?” he demanded. “Don’t have the guts to face me yourself, is that it?”

“Of course not,” Izaya wheezed, forcing a smirk. “But I could never do it as well as they could, right?”

“Shut up. Just _shut up_.” Shizuo squeezed harder. Pain zinged through Izaya’s body; he thought his knees were going to buckle. “Why did you have to do that, huh? Why get other people involved?”

Izaya snuck a look at his face. There was something written in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—it looked almost like _betrayal_.

“You want to kill me, fine. Kill me. But leave other people out of it, do you hear?” His voice was rising. “It has to be you.”

He shoved Izaya away. Izaya stumbled back, clutching his arm. It throbbed in tandem with his thundering heart. He stared at him, his head muddled with confusion.

“What’s with you? You come storming into my apartment like this, and then you let me go? How did you even get in?”

“Your neighbor.”

“How?”

“I told her I forgot my keys.”

_So stupid._ Izaya squeezed his eyes shut in disbelief. _Humans are so stupid._ “If you’re not going to try to kill me, then you can go.”

“I’m not finished yet.”

“Well, I am.” He stepped back from the door. “Good night, Shizu-chan.”

“I said _wait_!”

The door was inches from closing when Shizuo’s hand snapped out. His fingers were smashed between the door and the frame. Any normal person would’ve cried out in pain, but Shizuo was far from normal. He didn’t even seem to feel it. He wrenched the door open, and it cracked against the wall, leaving a crater the size of Izaya’s head.

Izaya gawked at it in disbelief. “You—! What are you doing? Don’t destroy my—!”

Shizuo snatched him by the collar, dragging him so their faces were centimeters apart. The breath was knocked out of Izaya’s lungs. This close, he could smell the reek of tobacco; he could see every ounce of rage contained in his eyes.

Instinctively, almost without thought, his gaze trailed down to his lips.

“Shizu-chan,” he said. “What…”

“This game you’re playing,” Shizuo interrupted. “I know you have a scheme in your head. I can smell it. And I’m telling you right now, if you hurt anyone I care about, I will _crush_ you. I’ll turn your bones into sand.”

“Oh?” His pulse raced, but he tried to remain calm. He gave him a sneer. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Shizu-chan. It makes me want to torture you even more.”

“You fucking louse, if you—wait.” Shizuo stiffened. “Are you...are you  _blushing_?”

Izaya froze. _No_. Something rose in his chest; it felt like it was going to bury him alive. _No, no, no_. _Not this_. He thrashed in Shizuo’s grip. “Let go of me.”

“Answer the question.”

“I said, let _go_!” Izaya slashed his arm up. His knife sliced across Shizuo’s cheek, startling him. It gave him enough leverage to dance out of reach. When he caught his balance, he aimed his knife at Shizuo, the point leveled at his heart.

“Die!” he commanded, trying to contain his heavy breathing.

Shizuo didn’t respond. He was staring at Izaya like he’d never seen him before in his life, and was turning him over and over in his mind. The cut weeped on his cheek, but he paid no attention to it. His eyes were busy scattering across Izaya’s face.

“You…” he said. “Are you…”

Izaya clenched his jaw. He told himself his hand wasn’t shaking. “Just die, already! Why won’t you die?” It wasn’t a question so much as a plea. “Just die! _Die_!”

He slammed the door shut. No sooner had it closed than Shizuo started hammering on it.

“Oi! You fucking flea! Answer me!” His voice was like the howling wind of a storm. Izaya was terrified he was going to tear the building apart. “Just answer me! Do I have to punch it out of you? _Oi_!”

_Die_. The word burst into his mind over and over, like a litany. _Die. Die. Die!_

“God _damn it_!” There was another deafening _smash_. The walls heaved like they were about to cave in. Izaya shielded his head, bracing himself—but nothing came. He strained his ear and heard the sound of thundering footsteps receding down the hall.

_He’s gone._

His body slumped. He collapsed on the wall, his shoulder rubbing against the crater Shizuo had left behind. He clamped a hand over his face. The other one wrapped around the blade of his knife, digging it into his palm. The searing pain grounded him, made him feel more like himself.

_Why does it have to be him_? The knife severed through his skin. _Why won’t he just die?_

* * *

_(Ikebukuro)_

“Hey,” Karisawa mumbled, almost to herself. “Do you think that shortie is going to be okay?”

“What, Chuuya?” Kadota opened the passenger door. “He’ll be fine, I’m sure.”

“You think so?” She clambered into the back. “He was going up against Shizuo and all…”

“Nah, didn’t you see him?” Yumasaki piped in. He had a book open in front of him, and his legs sprawled across the backseat. Karisawa picked them up before laying them on her lap. “He had that ‘mafioso’ vibe to him!”

“Ooh, you think? Maybe he’s like Firo, then!”

“But he had more confidence in himself. Not nearly as bad as Claire, though.”

“But Claire’s a solipsist! That’s different!”

“Would you two be quiet?” Kadota entreated. “I can’t handle any more of that today.”

“Don’t be so grumpy, Dotachin.”

Kadota sighed, leaning his head on his hand. Togusa glanced at him from the driver’s seat.

“Something happen?” he asked.

“We met an interesting person today.”

“Another one?” He laughed scornfully. “This city is teeming with them.”

Kadota smiled. “It is.”

Togusa gave him a look, but didn't press. He started the car. The van's old motor sounded like a growl, and the familiarity filled Kadota with a sense of fondness. Togusa pulled off of the shoulder and streaked into the night. None of them had any idea where they were going.

_True, this city is full of weird people. But that’s what I love so much about it._

Karisawa and Yumasaki filled the backseat with chatter. Kadota tuned them out, looking out the window. The city was a blur of inky streaks and flashing lights, with souls wandering the streets, begging to be found. Kadota remembered being like that: always moving from one place to the next, never able to settle down. It wasn't until he'd found the Dollars—or, to be exact, this specific group—that the ache inside of him had finally grown calm. Even in a city brimming with chaos, he felt at ease. He _belonged_ in it, longed to wrap himself up inside it. After all, if there was no one to save, where did that leave him? It was what he lived for. He wasn’t naive enough to think everybody could be spared, but that wasn’t going to keep him from trying.

He was so lost in his own thoughts, he almost didn’t notice when it began to rain.

“Huh?” Togusa snapped on the windshield wipers. He cranked them up as the drops pummeled down faster and faster, cursing under his breath. “Shit. Were we expecting rain?”

Kadota watched it fall, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t remember,” he admitted. “Maybe.”

While Togusa fussed with the controls, Kadota continued to stare. Every drop that fell was loud, and it barraged the windshield, erasing their field of vision. Unease wormed into his stomach, and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t dispel it. It took root and made a home.

_I guess a storm is coming soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 「愛は溢れるままに  
> 君へと流れ出す  
> 何を見てるの  
> 何も要らない
> 
> 恋に落ちたみたいに  
> 愛しいすぎる人よ  
> 何を捧げよう  
> 何もかもを全部」
> 
> "Love always overflows  
> And pours out to you  
> What was I looking for?  
> I don't need anything
> 
> It's like I fell in love  
> You're such a lovely person  
> I will give you anything  
> Anything and everything, I'll give it all"
> 
> —Miyano Mamoru, 「愛溢れる」("Love Overflowing/Overflowing Love")
> 
> It's finally finished. ;___; Thank you so much for reading, everyone!


End file.
